


Antiquated Notions

by RussianWitch



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Betaed, Biting, Dom/sub Undertones, Light Angst, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-20
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2019-06-13 14:08:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15366330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RussianWitch/pseuds/RussianWitch
Summary: On only four hours of sleep, the world has a somewhat surreal twist: people look like puppets and things appear in front of him without warning. Things like an inexplicably empty lift no one is making an attempt to enter, no one except Q, that is. Desperate to reach his office, and the Q-Branch kitchenette with its supply of tea, Q dives in just before the doors close.He really should have looked before he leaped.





	Antiquated Notions

**Author's Note:**

> Betaed by the lovely Dassandre, who saved this story from my horrible grammar. Any mistakes still there, are my fault.
> 
> Also many thanks to the members of the 00Q group on FB for the encouragement which made this in to the monster it is.

Running late, in Q's experience, just means he should have set his project up in one of the empty labs at HQ -- if he could have justified it—at least then he wouldn't have been late.

The solution he'd been seeking had presented itself shortly after midnight, and when Q next bothered looking up, it had been 5 a.m.

On only four hours of sleep, the world has a somewhat surreal twist: people look like puppets and things appear in front of him without warning.

Things like an inexplicably empty lift no one is making an attempt to enter, no one except Q, that is. Desperate to reach his office, and the Q-Branch kitchenette with its supply of tea, Q dives in just before the doors close.

The reek of sex chokes him, alerting Q to the error he's just committed. Reengaged memory points out there actually had been a crowd of people standing around the lift, some of them holding their noses shut, with surprised looks on their faces just before the lift doors had closed behind him with a cheerful 'ding'.

The smell clogs his nostrils: hot metal, expensive cologne, and sex—along with the sour smell of a high school locker room.

The source of the scent leans casually against the back wall's railing, looking relaxed, at least to anyone who hasn't spent hours upon hours tracking him all over the world.

"007—" Q sighs trying to inhale as little as possible, less surprised than he should be, "back early, I see."

"Had a bit of luck," the agent smirks faintly, cocking his head in a gesture that on anyone else could be interpreted as a come on, the baring of his neck an offering of submission.

Q feels a twinge of sympathy for the mark who, knowing Bond, had been left high and dry as soon as the agent had what he needed.

"Dare I hope my equipment was as lucky?" Q blurts, his body responding to the stimuli, trousers getting more uncomfortable by the second; the pheromones of an omega on the edge of a heat leaching his brain cells with every breath he takes.

There really should be something along the lines of a suppressant dispersal array in the lifts, Q thinks, possibly for the whole building. An aerosol system that could douse everyone entering the premises with a neutralizing spray.

A neutralizing spray that Q would kill for right about now.

"The decoder worked a treat," Bond says.  He shifts his weight, and the formerly crisp white shirt he's wearing gapes, exposing the hollow of Bond's throat that shimmers with sweat, the swell of his pectorals promising acres of tanned skin stretched over powerful muscle.

Mentally cursing his biology and Bond's twisted sense of humor, Q presses himself back against the doors, hoping he isn't too obvious about it. A dozen lies sit on the tip of his tongue in case Bond smells something he isn't supposed to over the thickness of his own scent.

Bond smiles, a mocking, flirtatious thing that makes Q itch to assert himself, do something horribly Neanderthalish and crude like try to dominate a bloody 00-agent, something he isn't supposed to even be able to want.

"Stop that!" he snaps instead, giving the lift panelling his complete attention -- the fake wood grain doesn't quite match up at the seam— but his trousers grow still tighter. Q can practically feel Bond's eyes on his crotch, the heat of his gaze like a physical touch, amused now that he's got a rise out of Q again without even really trying. "I'm not one of your marks!"

Like a door slamming shut, Bond snaps to attention.  All the welcome invitation in his posture closing up.

"As you say, Quartermaster." The omega nods, and even the reek of him seems to lessen as he primly buttons himself up, turning into the epitome of professionalism.

At the sight of the mask that has fallen into place on Bond’s face, Q wants to take the words back, but the lift doors open before Q can come to a decision, and Bond exits taking care to keep as far away from Q as possible.

\---------------------------------------------------

Horribly alert, and feeling like he's stepping out of a dream, Q slinks towards the elevator on the other side of the building to access the Q-branch bunkers and tries to ignore the feeling he just missed something vital.

The one good thing about Bond, in Q's experience, is that he's never been bothered by Q being an alpha and has never mistaken Q for anything else but an alpha either. A lot of people, betas with their weaker sense of smell, for instance, assume Q to be an omega or a fellow beta, acting surprised and suspicious when Q gets around to correcting them. Like it’s his fault his build didn't advertise his gender.

When MI6 came knocking at his door, Q had taken advantage of the usual confusion, allowing them to assume and never bothering to correct the paperwork, even after deciding working for the government wasn't as bad as he'd imagined.

The supporting service branches, with Q-branch at their hub, were meritocracies which mostly ignored gender so long as it didn't get in the way of work. Most of the techs were betas anyway, so Q didn't even need suppressants so long as he was careful.

All had gone well, he'd even earned several promotions once his superiors got a proper look at his code and engineering degree. Q had been happy working his way up through the supporting department, and had planned to stay on the periphery of Q-branch but not actually joining, until Major Boothroyd had taken that decision from him.

Q hadn't planned to find himself the second in command of Q-branch; he'd been too busy providing solutions to interesting problems to realize he was the heir apparent to the whole department until Major Boothroyd’s retirement party.  A surprise only rivalled by the revelation that the whole 00-contingent consisted of omegas. deadly, attractive, _unbonded_ omegas.

There had never been a better time to own up to his deception than at his promotion interview. He would have confessed, if only 003's mission hadn't gone tits up in the middle of it.

One emergency followed another, followed a crucial mission, followed a million little things heads of departments always needed to manage, and then Q realized he'd been the head of Q-branch for six months without incident.

By then he knew all of the 00's by name, had spoken to each of them on the comms and had saved a few of their lives—and had never met any of them in person. 00's didn't come down to the Q-branch labs, they were more than happy to have their gear explained by Q's assistants and shipped to them by courier. Relieved, Q had finally started to settle into the post when headquarters was blown up by a madman with a grudge, and 007 came back from the head.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As usual, R doesn't bother with knocking, she instead barges into his office with a tray, wielding it like a weapon as she battles her way around the piles of paperwork and bits and pieces of equipment that litter most of the horizontal surfaces in Q's office, including the floor.

Still two cups of tea short of equilibrium and not quite over Bond's earlier display in the elevator, Q thanks his lucky stars for his mostly beta subordinates. They can't smell his frustrated arousal that's taking its sweet time to dissipate, even after Q resorts to financial reports.

That, he supposes, is the one good thing that has resulted from Bond's shenanigans: Q will definitely be caught up with all of his paperwork by the end of the day.

That being said, Q is extremely happy not to share his misery with the minions, not even his second in command.

"The team from Marrakesh turned in the surveillance equipment they no longer need," she says, not even bothering to wait for Q to look up as she sets the tray down on a stable looking pile or reports, "and Bond came in, caused quite a ruckus. It's a miracle he didn't get quarantined at the airport!" She tells him relishing every word. Q digs his nails into the armrests of his chair at the sound of Bond's name, glancing up at the tray where one of the holsters looks awfully familiar—he fakes a sigh gulping air, and tastes omega.

His office is going to reek of Bond, even if he asks R to leave and take the equipment he usually inspects himself with her.

The scent teases at his hindbrain, suggests it might be a good idea to hunt down the kit’s previous user and...

"Ruckus? More than usual you mean?" Q asks, telling his instincts to fuck off and congratulating himself for sounding almost normal.

"From what I heard?" R shrugs. "He came in on the edge of a heat, it had possibly already started—Medical wasn't warned, the alpha doctor on shift was caught off guard and ended up with a bloody nose and is threatening to complain to Personnel..."

Q would sympathize except he'd managed to control himself while stuck in a lift for several eternal minutes with the agent in question and had managed to refrain from any inappropriate words or actions. Some people really need better self-control.

Making a mental note to find the name of the doctor, Q wonders if he or she can be transferred away from any contact with the 00-section.

"- not like 007 to go where there is no interest—," Q stalls, thinking back on some of the mission logs he's read.

"He didn't. The alpha tried to grab him. Hence the bloody nose," R reports with a little more pleasure than is strictly appropriate. Not that Q can blame her: R's omega sister had been harassed in college a few years previously. "I'm sure M is going to hear about it sooner than later. You will probably get to enjoy another series of interdepartmental sensitivity courses..."

Q shudders thinking about having to inflict another gender sensitivity seminar on himself and his people.

"Did he go home?" He asks instead, hoping to sound only casually curious.

He _is_ only causally curious, Q tells himself, as is his job to be. In no way is his curiosity anything other than professional, and certainly not intense enough to even consider pulling up the Smart Blood data feed to locate the agent in question.

"The _doctor_ went home, Bond went into isolation," R snagging Q's cup and pouring him tea, "so, there is hope his mission report will be turned in on time!"

Q doesn't wince or try to correct her: betas rarely had an accurate understanding of heats, or ruts for that matter, as nothing they experienced came close to the hormonal jumps and the accompanying physical and mental shifts alphas and omegas had to deal with on quarterly basis. He waves her off instead after accepting the fresh mug of tea with a grateful smile.

The thought of Bond in the isolation cells is surprisingly pleasing. Until Q remembers the existence of a certain medical waver in which an omega may preemptively give their permission for a Medical assigned alpha to help them through their heat.

A growl escapes him, and the feed from the security cameras monitoring the isolation cells is suddenly on his screen without Q's conscious input. It shows Bond, still dressed in dress shirt and trousers, lounging on the narrow cot in the furnished cell staring up at the ceiling.

Q shuts down the feed, annoyed with himself for having looked in the first place. 007 isn't part of his pack, none of the 00's are, nor are the minions under his care, no matter what his instincts tell him. Bond's comfort or wellbeing outside of missions isn't Q's problem, and he reminds himself that he doesn't _want_ them to be his problem either!  

Resorting to completing all the annoying but necessary tasks that make up the administrative side of his position isn't punishment. He's simply avoided the boring paperwork for ages and keeping Personnel and Accounting at bay is a tricky proposition when faced with skyrocketing equipment costs and the expense reports of agents expecting reimbursement.

Various reports and datasheets keep him occupied long enough that Z feels brave enough to barge in and hand Q a plate of sandwiches and another pot of tea along with a glare, but not brave enough to actually suggest Q eat.

The sight of food has Q wondering if Bond has been fed properly. For omegas in heat, food was never the priority but certainly a necessity to keep them from exhaustion. Often, omegas needed to be coached into eating even in the early stages of heat—on his screen Bond is no longer sat on the cot.

Q watches him pace along the glass wall of the cell. He is covered only by sweatpants and already looks a lot less composed than he did hours previously. The harsh lights turn Bond's body into an abstract painting, and Q is happily mesmerized until a message from R telling him to have a good night startles him out of his thoughts.

Finding that he's just spent two hours watching the omega pace in his cell, and having seen no evidence of him receiving food, Q gives in. He tells himself keeping Bond fed and mission ready is part of his job. If a visit satisfies his instincts as well, that's just an unexpected bonus. Picking up the still full plate from his desk, Q leaves his office, making sure to take the least traversed route towards Medical and into the isolation area.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

On his screen, Bond reminded Q of a tiger at the zoo. In person, with only glass separating them, the omega looks even more impressive, but Q is somewhat disturbed now that he can’t smell Bond through the glass.

Q wonders if this is how betas see them — alphas and omegas? Like savage creatures ready to snap at the slightest provocation. Bond’s blue eyes seem to flare as Q stops on the other size of the glass.

"Good evening, Clarice," Bond greets with a faint smirk, raking his eyes over Q's frame.

Q congratulates himself for not blushing. Sitting on the cold concrete floor, leaning back against the cot instead of sitting on it like a civilized human being, Bond still manages to look like a king on his throne.

Dishevelled is a good look on him, Q thinks, before strangling that thought and burying it deep.

"Doctor Lecter you are not, 007." Q wrinkles his nose, looking for the airtight slot which will allow him to pass the sandwiches through the glass.

"You wound me, Q," Bond tells him mournfully, almost managing to hide a shiver of discomfort, the hormonal surges already taking a toll on his body. Q admires the agent's self-control, even if he can't say the same about the randomness with which it is exercised.

"I don't have the legs for a skirt anyway," Q shrugs, sitting down on the ground to put himself at eye level with the agent. Not that Bond would ever view Q as a threat, not even with Q looming over him, but it's just good manners.

Q expects some clever retort to the skirt remark, but Bond doesn't look like he's in the mood for their usual banter. His attention turns to the plate and the slightly dried up sandwiches, and Q hurries to shove them into the hatch.

"Here. Eat," he orders.

Bond doesn't move, and Q starts to think he's read the agent wrong, when finally Bond rolls to his feet and stalks over to collect the food.

The sight of the omega inspecting his offering and taking the first bite sends a warm glow across Q's skin. The satisfied moan from Bond that follows makes Q hard. He'd never considered that watching someone eat could be arousing.

"People will say we are dating," Bond says, sitting back with a satisfied sigh once most of the sandwiches are gone.

When he shifts, Q spots the edge of a dark stain on the inside of Bond's thigh. Balling his hands into fists, he digs his nails into the soft flesh of his palms until the urge to break into the cell passes.

"Or do you bring food to all your agents in need?" The agent continues.

"None of the other agents have wandered into HQ in the middle of their heat and ended up in isolation before!" Q grumbles.

"Virgin territory for both of us in other words," Bond smiles lazily.

"I suppose I should thank you for bringing back the gun for once," Q says. "The data will prove useful."

"The magic words every agent loves to hear," Bond answers, bracing on the bed to push himself onto his feet, he makes a show of turning and picking the plate off the floor, sweat causing the muscle of his arms and back to glisten as they work.

Q tells himself showing off comes naturally to all agents. It isn't directed at him, and Bond bleeds sex appeal even when not in heat. Q has learned to ignore the flirting the agent seems to direct at everyone in his orbit with equal enthusiasm.

The plate goes back into the slot, and Q can smell Bond on the plastic and on the last sandwich itself when he retrieves it. Sweet now, _ripe_ , and ready for an alpha.

"I've managed to find some more parts for your car." Looking for an excuse to stay a little longer, the car seems as neutral a topic as they can get without discussing the weather. "You must come by sometime, if you want to discuss the details," Q says. He bites into the sandwich, and it tastes a little strange, but not in a bad way.

Bond offered him food, and it seems rude to ignore it like he usually does, even if it's his own lunch returning to him. That Bond watches him eat, leaning on the glass, doesn't mean a blessed thing.

"Does Personnel know you are an alpha, Q?" Bond asks.

Q chokes on his sandwich.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Unless you have a complaint to make..." Q says, no longer hungry.

Bond stretches along the glass, deliberate, and far too seductive for Q's comfort.

"What could I possibly have to complain about?" He asks too casually.

This close, Q notes Bond's hair is plastered to his head by sweat, and his fingers tap an unrecognizable rhythm against the thick glass. The stain on the sweatpants is getting bigger.

Q's gut churns with the need to ease the omega's discomfort. To help create a nest where the omega would be able to ride out his heat in comfort and sate his other hunger now that he’s been fed.  

He doesn't only have Bond's scent now; the taste of him on his tongue, as well, and it’s rich and earthy, decidedly not the nauseating, almost rotten sweetness he smelled in the lift.

Opening the door couldn't be that hard.  He could make sure that the cot is comfortable enough and spare blankets are present. Bond wouldn't mind, Q is sure. The way he is standing, it's practically an invitation to press against him from behind, lean in and scent him properly—

"Whatever are you thinking, Quartermaster?" Bond asks baring his fangs in a smirk, and Q realizes he's been silent for far too long, too distracted by his ludicrous thoughts.

"Nothing!" He hopes Bond is distracted enough by now not to spot his blush.

"You're a shit liar," Bond huffs, balling his hands into fists.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," Q shrugs but doesn't meet Bond's eyes.

And he can feel those eyes on him; the gaze heavy on his shoulders, pinning him to the cold lino.

"Q—," Bond growls.

"Whatever you are thinking, is not going to happen, 007!" Q lets him know. He stands. "I can't assist you outside of the usual mission parameters." The lie tastes bitter.

Under different circumstances—if wishes were horses; they'd be up to their necks in horse shit, Q reminds himself.

"And if mission parameters demanded—?" Bond drawls, following along behind the glass as Q starts down the corridor.

"Idle speculation never did anyone any good," Q throws over his shoulder, speeding up his pace.

None of it will stop him from sending a email to the head nurse on duty ordering extra blankets and other amenities to be brought to Bond.

The feeling of Bond's eyes on his back stays with Q all the way back to Q-branch. He shuts down the security camera feeds and promises himself not to look again.

His resolve lasts until he gets home.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Cats fed, Q checks his personal email, then the company one, and from there it's too easy to log into the system remotely.

002 and 009 are on missions and despite his trust in the handlers assigned to them, Q always likes to look in now and then to keep himself in the loop. After checking the safe house cams, it seems only natural to check the isolation cell cams as well.

The cot is no longer there, replaced by a heap of blankets piled on mats on the floor. Bond is curled up in the middle of the heap, broad back to the cameras, naked as the day he was born.

Q doesn't have to zoom in to see tremors running through Bond's frame, or the way he clutches at the blankets.

There should be an alpha with him helping to bring down the fever that has surely started.

Bond's blood work shows he's almost peaking. Any other omega, Q thinks, would have rubbed himself raw by now trying to alleviate the involuntary arousal.

As Q watches, the omega rolls onto his back, his legs fall open, and Q's mouth goes dry at the sight.

With half a city between them, Q allows himself to actually look.

An omega like Bond will never grace the cover of a magazine: too muscular, all hard planes and angles instead of a willowy, slender build and the faint curves fashion prefers. Scarred and weathered, Bond's body is a tool carefully built and scrupulously maintained to do a job few are capable of doing.

If anything happened between them, they would be evenly matched, Q thinks. Bond's trained muscle against the natural alpha strength hidden within Q's build.

Bond's yielding would always be a choice, not the unavoidable conclusion of a biological drive; an equal chance of beard burn and bruises or soft kisses and caresses.

On the screen, Bond bends his knees, digs his heels into the mattress and fucks the air drawing Q's attention to his cock. It's a nice cock, Q thinks, one he wouldn't mind getting to know intimately.

Bond, he knows, sleeps with women: alphas, betas, and omegas, it doesn't seem to matter. Just thinking about it has a growl building in the back of Q's throat and makes his claws itch.

He digs them into the special pads he installed all along the front of the table for himself and the cats and concentrates on his breathing.

Jealousy is bad: it signals attachment.

The feeling is familiar. He’d been jealous of Sarah when they'd been together—except there, the attachment had come first. Before life happened, Q had fully expected them to eventually mate and raise a family, or at least a litter of cats, growing old together.

After her, Q had rarely allowed himself as heavy an involvement.

With Bond, the thought of a mating and growing old together is absurd. Bond would be made a less effective agent by a bonding—if he could ever be interested in something so domestic.

An alpha and omega spending a heat together used to mean something; Q had always liked the old-fashioned notion of heat bonding as a preamble to a mating. Not that any but a few of his age-mates shared his antiquated opinion, never mind any of the 00's who would use even going into heat as part of their professional arsenal when needed.

On the screen, Bond has given in, his hands roam restlessly across his sweat soaked skin, working their way down until they frame his swollen cock. Bond's extended claws leave welts on his skin as he moves his hands further down and digs his fingers into the meat of his thighs instead of touching his cock.

The grimace on Bond's face sends a chill down Q's spine. He has seen it on Bond's face before. Usually when the man was dirty and bloody, near to breaking, his iron will the only thing keeping him going because the mission demanded it.

Q is half way out of the front door before his mind catches up with the instincts.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Swallowing another frustrated growl, he re-locks his front door, leaning against it until the urge to go to Bond settles down from maddening to simply unbearable.

While the cats help, coming to keep him company as he broods on the couch, Q still feels like hell by morning. Lack of sleep weighing on his self-control all the way to work, making it hard not to bare his teeth at the pushy people on the Tube or posture when another alpha comes near.

Despite the early hour, Q-branch is already abuzz with gossip when Q unlocks his office. Bond's heat worsened overnight, he overhears while picking up his tea. It got so bad, the alpha on call was summoned to help Bond out—only to be tossed out of the isolation cell by the angry omega. Half Medical's roster had to be reshuffled to make sure no other alpha would be subjected to the ornery omega's antics; they were considering drugs...

Q doesn't want to be pleased that another alpha was rejected by Bond since it means Bond is still suffering. Hating himself a little, Q barricades himself in his office and uses paperwork to smother the urge to go down to the isolation cells.

By lunchtime, Q’s body is vibrating with the need to go find his omega. Hormones and fanciful thoughts are slowly making a mess out of his brain.

"M wants to see you," Moneypenny says, appearing seemingly out of thin air in front of his desk. She doesn't bat an eyelash at Q's startled snarl and aborted lunge.

"Don't do that!" He groans, retracting his claws with effort. "The last thing I need at the moment is having to explain to M why his favourite assistant got maimed!"

"As if I would let you!" she teases, but her eyes are serious and she deliberately turns her back. The display of trust calms him down somewhat, enough to follow her to M's lair. "Better hurry," she tells him over her shoulder. "He’s rather—upset."

'Upset' can mean a lot with Mallory, Q has learned, and Q usually can't blame him. With one of his best operatives indisposed, and half the organization busy gossiping and fantasizing about helping said agent in need, Q would be 'upset' as well...

"He talked to Personnel this morning," Moneypenny warns Q in a whisper, closing M's office door behind him.

That's when Q knows he's utterly and completely buggered.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Quartermaster—," M greets him with a short nod, his face giving nothing away.

"M—," Q nods in return, sitting down when M waves at the visitor's chair. Internal alarm bells deafening him as he settles as casually as he can.

"I'm having a spot of trouble I did not foresee having," M frowns at last. Q has seen him look at the paintings MI6 loans from the National Gallery the same way—like he's trying to learn their secrets just by glaring. "Would you care to guess the nature of my problem?"

"No, sir.  As far as I know, all current missions are within parameters—"

"None of the missions are the reason I was woken up in the middle of the night to be informed one of my top agents almost took the bullocks off the designated alpha because he got himself heat bonded and is refusing to accept anyone but the alpha he is bonded to!"

"Sir?" Q stammers though most of him is howling to go look for the alpha Bond got himself bonded to and destroy him, while the smaller, more rational part wonders why he's been called into M's office in the first place. "Do you mean 007? R mentioned he'd turned in most of his equipment—"

"Really, Q!" M leans forward, radiating danger.

"I really don't see what I have to do with—"

"I'm not in the mood for games today!" M interrupts him again, his glare going up another notch.

Squaring his shoulders, Q stares right back.

"What I want are answers! Chiefly the reason Personnel is under the impression the Quartermaster responsible for the 00's is a beta when he is clearly an alpha, and also, why said Quartermaster thought it prudent to consort with an unbonded omega he knew to be in heat. Answers, now! Before I decide to detain you for treason!" M snarls, and Q feels his hackles rise.

"I have not had any untoward contact with 007, and Medical was not providing sufficient care to the agent—I felt it within my jurisdiction as Quartermaster to at least make sure the agent would still be in fighting form once his heat ran its course!"  he bites back. “Going without food would have incapacitated him longer than necessary in his condition and delay future deployment."

"No protests regarding your paperwork, I see?" M prompts.

"I am not responsible for errors in Personnel records. They insist on using external software and use the Ministry of Interior's servers! Neither my people, nor any of the 00's have had any complaints about my functioning..."

"A lie of omission, is still a lie," M points out when Q has to stop to take a breath.

"One overlooked by both the former M and Major Boothroyd, or I wouldn't be sitting here to be accused of treason!" Being accused of treason would present all manner of problems. He doesn't want to leave and start over somewhere else, Albert and Tribble wouldn't like moving much either...

"Neither of whom is alive any longer to confirm your story," M points out.

"It's illegal to discriminate on the basis of gender. I have done my job to the best of my ability. If you are unsatisfied with that, you can always fire me."

"You hacked into our own security cameras, and then went down to feed him," M says with incredulity, ignoring Q's offer to fire him, "and yet don't know anything about Bond heat bonding you?"

In hindsight, Q could have simply called Medical and demanded they do something instead of taking Bond his own forgotten lunch. "There was no opportunity for heat bonding, all security precautions were observed!" he denies, deliberately not thinking about the previous morning.

"I often regret meeting my predecessor only briefly," M sighs. "I would dearly like to know her reasons for letting certain people run roughshod of the rules—" rubbing his eyes, Mallory manages another half-hearted glare. "Considering some of her other questionable decisions, assigning an unbonded alpha to supervise several equally unattached omegas under stressful conditions seems—par for course."

"I wasn't aware she had a hand in my appointment," Q frowns, wondering if he hadn't underestimated his former boss, "but she often disregarded convention in favour of results."

"I had noticed," M agrees, "and have strived to carry on that particular tradition—within reason," He itches the bridge of his nose. "Unfortunately, tonight's events are making me question the wisdom of that choice."

"Nothing happened, and nothing is _going_ to happen, if that's your concern," Q says. "I more or less told Bond so outright. I don't sleep with colleagues, or any other person I hardly know, for that matter. Nothing untoward happened yesterday!"

In answer, M jabs a button in one of his desk drawers, and a panel slides away exposing a bank of screens, all of them show Bond pacing his cell, chest bare but sweat pants still on.

Bond looks agitated, but not yet out of control. The footage doesn't have sound, but Q has monitored Bond enough to read his posture.

Something off-screen stops the omega mid-pace. He cocks his head, listens for a moment, then retreats to settle on the floor. Leaning against the cot, he deliberately composes himself into a casual slouch right before the image goes dark.

"Your motives might have been pure, but _his_ were _not_.”   

"I can't be held accountable for Bond's actions!" Q bristles, trying to figure out what M is trying to accomplish by haranguing him.

"Of course not, but you will have to live with the consequences of them," M says.

Q's blood runs cold as his boss pulls a thick file out of another drawer, extracting a signed and notarized form.

"If my suspicion is correct," M sighs, "Bond is currently fixated on you." He puts the form on the table in front of Q. "I expect you know what this is," he says.

Q's first impulse is to deny it, possibly claw the paper to shreds, reduce it to molecules. "Bond's medical consent form," he says through gritted teeth.

"Which includes heats," M says.

"Which includes heats," Q parrots, "with an amiable alpha in possession of a similar consent form signed, which I have _not_.”  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It doesn't come as much of a surprise when M lays an identical form filled in with Q's personal details on the table next to Bond's.

All it lacks is his signature.

"That can be remedied," M pushes his pen across the table. "I need my agent 'fighting fit' as soon as possible."

"You can't order me!" Q growls, rising from his chair in anger.

"But I _can_ detain you for disobeying orders," M says blandly not moving an inch.

"That's—," even as he starts the sentence, Q knows any threat of denial he makes will be empty. He'd become too secure in his position, too nice...

The pen drops from his fingers twice, and he accidentally shreds the bottom of the form with his claws as he signs.

Moneypenny doesn't meet his eyes as he marches out of M's office. He wonders how much of the meeting she listened in on, and if she had been the one to fill in the bulk of his new consent form. She had been a pleasant lunch companion, he thinks heading for Q-branch. A mistake he wouldn't be making again.

R is busy with an experiment that cannot be interrupted. Relieved, Q sends a text with instructions for the next week, managing to avoid the rest of the team leads while locking down his office.

The beta doctor assigned to monitor Bond flinches and stammers when Q demands to be shown a locker to keep his things for the duration of his stay. Dressed only in an undershirt and trousers, Q marches himself to Bond's cell.

The lock automatically unlocks when he approaches, and with one last glare for the camera, Q steps into the cell.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The stink of unfulfilled need almost brings him to his knees. The mix of frustration, lust, and sweat clogs the air. Concern for the omega eclipses Q's rage even as his cock grows painfully hard.

Neither of them wants this, Q reminds himself, as Bond rises from the blankets.

Bond's usually sharp eyes are vacant, his jaw slack with want, but he's still a predator and snarls at the intruder entering his lair.

Kicking the door shut behind him, Q shucks his undershirt, perversely pleased when, instead of attacking, Bond stops to stare.

He throws the undershirt at the agent, bracing against the possibility of attack, but Bond lunges for the garment instead of him and misses. Collapsing with an annoyed sound, Bond gropes around for it, sniffing at the fabric one he has it and sneezing loudly.

"Your disapproval of my sartorial choices has been noted, and ignored—again," Q says, moving further into the cell now that he's sure Bond will not attack.

A cooler with food and fluids has been placed next to the alcove that holds the facilities, extra blankets and towels piled on the shelf next to it.

Q wets two of the towels carefully.

Bond is a mess, his hair stands up in hedgehog spikes, stiff with dried sweat. Dried slick is crusted between his legs, and pre-come flakes off his abdomen.

Q shouldn't find him magnificent.

Bond watches warily as Q takes a plate of finger foods from the cooler along with several bottles of sports drink and water and deposits the bounty next to the omega's nest.

"Did you decide to expand mission parameters after all?" the agent growls, rising to his hands and knees, swaying as he raises his arse.

"Don't do that!" Q sighs, kneeling beside him.

He doesn't want to see Bond or any omega presenting when it's only desperation and manipulation at work, not true desire. The position does give him the opportunity to remove some of the sweat soiled blankets from the nest before attempting to clean Bond.

"Would you prefer me on my back?" Bond asks, a fake smile twisting his face into a grimace.

"I'd prefer you to shut up, and at least let me clean you up," Q tells him.

"Wouldn't want to insult your delicate sensibilities," the agent drawls, kneeling up and spreading his arms in invitation, only to sway and almost falter when Q throws the damp towel at him.

Q watches the agent try to scrub at himself ineffectively for a few moments before asking, "Let me help, please?" He shuffles closer, making sure Bond can keep track of his hands like he would with a distressed animal.

Bond sneers at the display, shifting to offer his back for cleaning. Bond's back is rock hard muscle and tanned skin. Q bites back a gasp, trailing his fingers across the scarred remains of bullet and less clearly defined wounds.

The agent bows his head, exposing the back of his neck in a gesture so submissive it strikes Q as insincere.

Q wants to tell Bond not to bother, he doesn't need it, wouldn't expect it even if this wasn't a twisted parody of what spending a heat together could really be like.

Careful of the scars, Q wipes Bond's back clean working his way down, only to stall at the swell of Bond's ass.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"You have done this before, I assume?" Bond asks over his shoulder, mocking despite the way his hips cant, pushing his ass into Q's hand.

At least he already sounds better, Q thinks.

He startles when Bond grabs his wrist, dragging Q's hand between his legs, twisting it painfully in an attempt to force Q's fingers into his body. The omega's aim is off, however, and he barely manages to catch the tip of Q's finger on the rim of his hole before giving up, whining in frustration at the lack of stimulation.

Bond's arseshole is open, swollen and wet with slick, and only the pain in his wrist keeps Q from pushing his fingers into the omega's body. Bond's body is hotter than normal, the fever that accompanies an unsatisfied heat having taken hold.

Then the tip of his finger slips inside accidentally, and the silky walls tighten around it instantly, trying to draw him deeper. Bond groans like a wounded man, pushing back against Q's finger, groping behind him to catch hand again, tightening his grip when Q tries to pull away.

"If you break my hand," Q warns, "I'll be less than accommodating!" The words stick to his tongue, his mouth is dry with lust.

Foiled, Bond pulls away, rolls onto his back with an annoyed huff, letting his legs fall open to show off his heavy cock as he pants with frustration.

Q looks away, down at his fingers that glisten in the harsh cell lights. They’re coated with a thick, sticky substance that makes his mouth water when he scents it. The smell invites him to push Bond flat and make a feast of the omega's arse and cock, lick him until Bond forgets mouthing off is even an option.

Bond's nostrils flare as he rolls onto his side, curling closer to Q. "I can smell what you're thinking!" the agent hisses. He's on Q lightning fast, shredding the alpha’s trousers and underwear before Q has time to process.

The agent's hand is on the base of Q's cock in an instant, squeezing and rubbing the tissue that will form Q's knot when he comes with a appreciative purr.

Biting back a moan at the feeling of the callused fingers on his cock, Q grabs Bond by the scruff, pulling him close enough to kiss.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They stall, only a breath between them.

As much as Q likes kissing, it doesn't seem appropriate. It's such an intimate thing, one he doesn't want to sully with the memory of this encounter. Bond's lips brush his cheekbone instead, and worry at the lobe of Q's ear teasingly as he practically crawls into Q's lap.

Giving up on cleaning the man up, Q dumps Bond back onto the blankets and quickly follows, slotting himself between the man's thighs.

"What was the saying again?" he wonders lining himself up, "Lie back, and think of England?"

Bond laughs as Q pushes in, glacier slow all the way to the root. Laughter turns into pleased purrs as Q rocks into the omega's body, closing his hand around Bond's cock.

Bond is beautiful when he comes, Q thinks. Wide-eyed with surprise, he leaves bruises on Q's shoulders as wave after wave of pleasure wrecks his body.

"Bloody hell," the agent gasps after he manages to regain some control of himself, "this is rather embarrassing."

"After two days? I'm surprised you didn't faint!" Q grumbles. Bond wiggles in a way that's horrible for Q's self control, until he has no choice but to pin the omega, hands slipping through the mess Bond made on himself.

"I don't faint!" Bond snaps raising his head, affronted at the suggestion, only to let it drop with a whine when Q moves his hips minutely.

"Maybe it's just age catching up?" Holding Bond down one handed, Q raises his other and licks his fingers clean, watching Bond's cock twitch back to life as he sucks each finger in turn.

"Come here," Bond demands ignoring the bait. Cupping Q's face, he traces the alpha's lips with his thumbs, pressing gently on the seam until Q opens up and Bond can push inside.

Q sucks on the digit in his mouth, ignoring the way Bond's body throbs around his cock, until the omega has caught his breath.

"Now, put your back into it, Quartermaster!" Bond orders, having regained his breath and interest in further proceedings.

Nipping the digit sharply before letting it go, Q complies, setting a punishing rhythm that has Bond hard, panting and groaning again in no time, his eyes growing hazy with pleasure. Q uses his alpha strength to keep Bond’s hips pinned, relishing at the thought of leaving bruises on the omega's skin that will be with him once the heat has past, reminding the omega of Q.

Bond's legs lock behind Q's back, heels digging into the small of his back, egging him on.

Bond grips the back of Q's neck, pulls him down until there is only a breath between them.

It's too close for comfort when Q already feels like he's coming apart. His knot catches on the rim of Bond's anus, swelling larger with every stroke until moving is no longer an option.

Q's teeth are too close to Bond's throat, to where one bite would mean permanent possession and more trouble than either of them are worth.

"Q!" Bond gasps, shoving the side of his hand between Q's teeth, coming again as Q's teeth sink in to his flesh.

The taste of Bond's blood pushes Q over the edge, his knot flares, and he spills into Bond's body, slumping onto the omega's broad chest.

Bond tugs his hand out of Q's mouth while the alpha’s distracted by his glasses digging painfully into his forehead.

With his mouth free, Q curses, but his body is too weak to move.

Bond runs his hand through Q's hair, gently removing the glasses from his nose.

Close as they are, Bond's face is still a blur, an assembly of coloured spots.

"I'm sorry," Q slurs, licking his lips to catch the last trace of Bond's blood. Lying his head back down, he nuzzles the swell of a pectoral, grateful he isn't able to see the pity on Bond's face. He's never lost control so badly. Never felt the urge to bite before.

Bond catches Q's face in his hand.

He's being studied, Q thinks. Every expression that passes across his face is noted and analyzed somewhere in a still functioning corner of Bond's brain. Bond's lips brush across his cheek, the kisses gentle, almost ghostly. They take Q's breath away, leaving him dizzy and hungry for home, for everything he shouldn't want.

"Nothing to be sorry for," Bond murmurs against the corner of Q's mouth.

Q shifts, freezing when the motion tugs at his knot and makes Bond grunt with the sensation, and dig his nails into Q's shoulders in warning. He blindly gropes for the omega's cock, milking it roughly until Bond comes again, making a mess of both of them.

"I always forget this par—," the agent's finger on his lips stops Q from finishing the sentence. He nips at the digit instead, sucking the fingertip into his mouth, and Bond lets him, guiding Q's head back down onto his chest.

"I never know what to do—," Q mumbles around the finger in his mouth, letting his hands wander across Bond's skin, wiping away at least some of the come. He wiggles a hand between them, splaying his fingers across hard muscle, imaging feeling past it to the uterus below greedily waiting to be filled—He hadn't asked about contraception, hadn't checked Bond's file...

"Don't worry about that." Bond's eyes, when Q looks, are closed; he looks almost peaceful.

Q's thoughts stray to what the omega would look like swollen with his child; the thought is absurd. He has never wanted children, and Bond—it's the hormones, Q reminds himself, just the hormones making him desperate to see the sight in reality.

"Worry about what?" he asks distractedly.

"Offspring," the agent answers blandly. "I'm barren."

The words feel like a slap in the face, shaking Q from his hormonal haze. He wonders if an apology is appropriate?

"I have cats," he offers instead, and Bond laughs, bucking under him and making Q clamp on to keep from shifting again.

"I knew that," he says when the only evidence remaining of his mirth are the light shudders running through his body. "Two cats and a mortgage, wasn't it?"

That Bond remembers comes as a surprise, that he seems to want to talk about it—incomprehensible. Q hums his agreement anyway, biting his lip as his knot feels like it's about to pop. Then something relaxes inside of him, and with one last wave of pleasure dispersing across his nerves, he's done.

"In Brixton," Q finally decides to share. "It's an old council flat." Under him Bond shudders dramatically, distracting Q from the sensation of his knot shrinking, releasing him from the captivity of James' body.

"And here I thought you were secretly an independently wealthy, former hacker," Bond mocks with a smile that turns into a grimace of discomfort when Q's knot slips out of his body.

Free, Q rolls off of the agent, eager to turn away if only for a moment. The urge to pull Bond to him, wrap himself around the bigger man, and not let go drives Q out of the nest onto the cold concrete of the bare floor.

Bond turns away as well, stretching out on his belly. When Q glances in his direction, his eyes are drawn by his come welling at the rim of the omega's overstretched, red arsehole.

His cock is half-hard again in an instant, almost ready to go. Not quite in a rut, but something close to it that allows alphas to keep up with an omega’s heat.

Q could slide between Bond's legs again, pin Bond to the blankets and use his fingers to get all the come back where it belongs, deep in the omega's body. A plug would be handy, or Q could plug him back up with his cock. He's sure Bond wouldn't mind that at all, would probably welcome it.

Lust addles his brain, leaves a small corner of it with a nagging suspicion that he should be doing something other than trying to get his cock back into the omega's body.

Crawling away from the nest helps, along with bruising his knees take on the floor when he does so. At a distance, thinking and remembering what he was _trying_ to do instead of succumbing to temptation becomes easier.

The bottles of sports drink haven't rolled too far, and their activities surprisingly didn’t overturn the plate of food. Q gathers it all, balancing the plate precariously on the edge of the blanket pile within Bond's reach.

Bond begins to sit up and reach for the drink, when Q pushes him back down, growling at the man in warning. Holding the omega down, Q spreads the cheeks of the man's arse one-handed, gathering the spilled come and rubbing it into the swollen rim ignoring Bond's grunts at the sensation.

"Stay still," Q orders, covering the abused opening with this thumb, he pushes the tip in with ease, enjoying the way the hole clenches it in welcome. "Your body will work through the heat faster if you stay full." Just saying that makes the back of Q's neck prickle and sweat like he just ran five miles.

"Are you planning on feeding me then?" Bond asks over his shoulder.

"It would be my pleasure," Q answers, too fast, stumbling over the words with eagerness for the intimacy of the gesture.

He twists the cap off the sports drink and leans over Bond to offer the liquid, carefully tipping it so the prone man can safely drink without doing more than raising his head.

Q expects Bond to merely indulge him with a sip before taking the bottle from his hand and finishing it on his own, asserting his independence. Bond, of course, confounds him yet again, drinking his fill from Q's hand, trusting the bottle to be held so he doesn't choke, keeping his hands open and lax, arms stretched out in from of him.

Taking the bottle away, Q offers a bit of meat instead. The roast beef is sliced thin enough that it sticks to Q's fingers, not that it seems to bother Bond who meticulously licks every trace of it from Q's skin, cleaning off the last traces of juice before looking up at Q in expectation.

Getting comfortable against Bond's side, Q end up feeding the agent more cold-cuts along with slices of pear and apple which Bond crunches happily. His teeth nip the pads of Q's fingers teasingly with each morsel Bond takes from his fingers, and chases droplets along the side of Q's hand to suck at the prominent wrist bone until Q shakes him off to reach for another bite.

"I'm not on the menu," Q says next time he feels Bond's teeth on his skin.

"Shame," Bond says mournfully, flashing a smile at Q over his shoulder, then licking his lips suggestively.

An image of those lips wrapped around his cock, driving him insane in the most pleasurable way, flashes through his mind's eye.

"You'll have to live with the disappointment." Oral sex does nothing to quell an omega's heat, so there is no point even thinking about it. They aren't there to have 'fun' but to get Bond operational again as fast as possible.

His knot aches, and Bond obliges by spreading his legs wider, melding into the blankets with a contented purr as Q pushes in, causing him into overbalance and sink deeper into Bond's pliant body.

"Yesss," the omega grunts, his claws popping out, shredding the blankets and leaving marks on the concrete when Q works a hand under his body, wrapping his fingers around Bond's cock, tightening his grip until Bond comes with a curse just as Q's knot pops again. Q loosens his grip on the now over-sensitive flesh, only to tighten it again and again, keeping the motion up until Bond is keening into the blankets, leaking all over Q's fingers.

Despite his hand going numb from their combined weight, and despite all the reasons he shouldn't be enjoying this floating in the back of his mind, there is no place Q would rather be that very moment.

Q drops his head, groans in annoyance when his hair sticks to his forehead and Bond's back, rubbing his face against a shoulder blade and cursing in annoyance when that only makes things worse.

"Don't move!" Bond growls, clenching almost painfully around Q's knot.

Q is sure he's going to faint from all the blood in his body rushing to his knot. It feels like it is swelling to twice its usual size, and Q pants against Bond's back.

He wants so badly to reach between them and feel the muscle holding him tight as it bulges, around his knot with every breath Q takes, its skin dusky and shiny from the stretch.

Q wants to pull back and look—just thinking about it sends a surge of possessive pleasure through his body; how he would love to own the body beneath him, his omega...He's stroking the overstretched skin before he knows it, the tip of his finger catching on the straining rim. The omega is being so good for him, so full already, taking him beautifully—part of Q wants to wreck him, break Bond to his hand...

"Q—!" even with his voice muffled, Bond sounds—off.

The tone shakes Q from his hormonal haze, has him removing his hands and curling tighter along Bond's back to take some of the strain off his body.

"Sorry, I'm—this has never happened before." He's never felt so addled after sex: happy and dizzy, feeling in love in a way he hasn't since his first crush. Before he realized it was just hormones making him feel the way. "Would you be more comfortable on your side?" From the feel of it, they are going to be stuck together for ages, and Bond will probably be happy to have Q’s weight off his back.

"I'm—," Bond slurs while Q tries to breathe as shallowly as possible to keep from hurting Bond again.

"You can try to sleep?" Q coaches, rubbing Bond's shoulders.

Getting them situated still hurts Bond, Q suspects, but once they are on their side with Q leaning against Bond's back, their legs tangled together, Bond settles. That’s what matters as he slides an arm around the agent's middle, rubbing Bond's abdomen with slow, calming circles, and trying not to think about anything at all.

Q succumbs to sleep long before his knot deflates. He wakes thirsty, his head feeling like it is stuffed with cotton balls.

Bond is draped over him like a particularly heavy blanket, trapping Q in the nest.

It feels too good. Far better than Q would have ever imagined, but then Bond has always been detrimental to his self control.

Q’s never felt the urge to possess any of the omega he's been with, and he'd been in love with all of them.

Q isn't in love with Bond: Bond is a subordinate, a menace, a man whose hobbies are self destruction and the seduction of married women, whose one and only lover died after having betrayed him.

If Q wasn't pinned down, he would run—except he wouldn't because judging from the cock digging into his hip, Bond needs him, or is going to need him soon enough.

"Don't think so hard," the omega grumbles against his shoulder, his hand tightening in Q's hair in censure.

"Unlike some people, I can't turn my brain off," Q grumbles, arching into the big hand cupping the back of his head.

"Guess I'll have to try harder," Bond says looking up, far too serious for Q's comfort.

"Get me a drink then, if you're 'trying harder'," he tries to deflect, uncomfortable with the intensity in the agent's eyes.

Q doesn't expect Bond to obey.

He misses Bond’s body heat as soon as the omega moves, crawling over him on hands and knees, to get at the stash next to their nest.

Q can't resist reaching out, feeling Bond's muscles move under skin as Bond stretches over him.

The man is slick with sweat, his cock glistening with pre-come.  He shouldn't be in that state yet.

"You should have woken me," Q admonishes, cupping Bond's ass, his fingers going to the omega's hole.

"I'm fine," Bond answers dismissively, settling on Q's lap with a bottle of sports drink in hand.  He twists off the cap and takes a swig before offering it to Q. "Wouldn't do to exhaust my alpha, would it?" he jokes, tracing Q's collarbones as he drinks.

"You're impossible," Q grumbles between sips, leaving the last mouthful for Bond. "You’re also burning up."

"Heat is peaking." Bond tosses the bottle out of the nest, and now that his attention has been drawn to it, Q can smell the heat.

"What do you need?" Q asks kneading powerful thighs. "Tell me!" he orders in a tone only alphas can ever manage. The tone makes fire blaze in Bond's eyes.

"You—," Bond growls in answer, leaning over him, taking Q's face in his hands. "I need you!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They lose time.

Bond's heat is contagious in that stage, it rubs off onto Q with every touch, kiss, and lick. Q remembers only fragments of that day.

Bond's eyes black with lust.

The weight of him solid and grounding when Q feels like he's about to float from his body.

The omega moving above him, around him, throwing his head back as Q knots him over and over again.

Sweat beading on tanned skin and dripping from Bond's forehead as he curls forward mouthing along Q's collar bone.

Ecstasy turning painful as Q gives his omega what he needs.

When Q remembers the kiss, he thinks it a figment of his imagination at first, a fantasy he doesn't remember having: tender and soft in the middle of their violent mating.

Bond kissed with his eyes open, but then so did Q.

The only thing Q doesn't remember is who initiated the first kiss.

Lying in his own bed later, Q wonders what would have happened if he'd remembered the kiss while they were still in isolation?

Would he have passively watched Bond get up and get dressed in sweats provided by Medical and walk out of the isolation cell as he had done?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

No one talks about Q's 'lost' days when he gets back to work. Not within his hearing, at any rate.

At the next managerial meeting, M gives him a nod, and Q barely keeps from punching him in the face.

Other department heads, betas the lot of them, spend the rest of the meeting trying to get as far away from Q as possible. At the end of it, Moneypenny slips him a file with his medical waiver, disappearing before Q can rip her a new one.

Bond disappears altogether, taking an unprecedented two weeks' worth of holiday to 'recover' from his heat, and disappearing so thoroughly after only a day that even the Smart Blood fails to locate him.

To Q, taking time off feels a little too much like running away. Now that he's become the next notch on Bond's bedpost, he can't afford to show weakness. After all, weird looks in the cafeteria and from omegas in Accounting who had never given him the time of day before, now trying to chat him up when he goes to get tea, aren't actively harmful. He still snaps at one of them, and the lot slinks off, only for an omega from Purchasing to try the next day.

The first couple of days after the heat, Q spends on tender hooks, half expecting to see Bond behind every corner he turns. He isn't sure how he'll react once the agent comes back.

The whole situation is aggravating.

His decision to find Bond, not a rational one.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Q is in the middle of a coding binge when he realises he needs closure.

Bond walking away without so much as a 'thanks for the shag' is not sufficient. A small, delusional part of him now thinks of Bond as 'his,’ and the only thing that will shatter that notion is an outright rejection of Q on the omega's part.

Picking the lock on a 00's flat is a very bad idea, even for someone as intimately familiar with the security features as Q is. He's made sure Bond’s flat is empty before leaving Q-branch, using all the surveillance equipment at his disposal.  

Q isn't sure what he expects to find. Certainly not an almost bare apartment with neatly labelled but unopened storage boxes littering the living room, sides bleached by the sun that must shine in through the French windows of the living room.

There are more signs of life in the kitchen: still fresh fruit in a bowl kitchen appliances showing traces of use, an unwashed cup in the sink, but nothing that could give Q a clue where the agent might have gone to lie low, so he moved on.  

The door to the bedroom stalls him. He rests his hand on the door handle as he chews his lip, convincing himself that he has no other choice. When Q finally does push the handle down, the sound of the lock springing open makes him flinch.

With the lightest of pushes, the door swings open revealing Bond leaning on the footboard of his bed, his gun at the ready.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Bond…" Q spreads his hands, making it clear he isn't armed, but the gun trained on him doesn't waver.

Q wants to push the weapon aside and wrap himself around the man and demand an explanation for the Smart Blood malfunctioning and the surveillance avoidance.

Bond should not be home, shouldn't look like he's been home since he'd left Q in the isolation room, not according to all the data Q has.

The gun should have most of his attention, but behind it, the hollow of Bond's throat is framed by the collar of a soft looking sweater, his tanned skin contrasting beautifully with the pale blue of the knit. Q wants to fit his mouth to that spot, lick his scent onto Bond's skin once again.

"At your service," Bond drawls, "There is an emergency, I assume?"

"The Smart Blood wasn't working and—," Q babbles like an idiot.

"I'm honoured my absence during leave warrants the attention of middle management." The spy smiles a toothy smile.

Q feels his hackles rise at the mockery, but bites back the urge to bare his teeth in return. After all, he did break in, and procedure wise—Bond is right.

"Yes, well I had the afternoon off," Q tries to joke, the gun's presence and the quagmire of his instincts making it hard to think.

Pushing off the footboard of the bed, Bond stalks the few steps separating them and looms. "What are you really doing here?" he demands, taking a deep breath that probably answers his question before Q can form a sentence.

"I—hoped to find a clue to where you'd gone so we could—talk," Q answers, ignoring the arousal that feels like it’s pouring from his body.

"Talk?" The agent cocks his head, sniffing again and Q feels his cheeks heat up.

"Talk," Q nods. "I have questions..."

"About the Smart Blood? I'm afraid I won't be divulging anything about that," Bond smirks.

"About the reason you decided to come in to Six knowing you were going into heat—was I just the first alpha to come in range? Or—?" The words stall in his throat, his cheeks burn with embarrassment.

Bond strikes like a snake, hoists Q off his feet, and pins him to the wall behind him.

Instinctively, Q wraps his legs around Bond's waist to keep from falling, even as he struggles against Bond's grip, until he's completely immobilized by Bond's body pressed fully against his own.

"You know the answer to that, Ethan," the agent growls, sinking his teeth into the side of Q's throat, sucking and biting at the skin.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`

The shock of hearing his given name keeps Q pliant until his neck feels like an open wound, raw from Bond's teeth and the stubble on his cheek.

"No!" He gasps, raking his fingers through Bond's too short hair looking for purchase when he feels Bond's teeth scrape across the spot bonding bites are traditionally given.

Bond releases him at once, and Q slumps against the wall when the agent wrenches himself back.  

"I must have misunderstood," the agent growls, turning away. "Forgive me."

"I—I did come here to talk!" Q says bereft and annoyed. "I told you: I don't sleep with colleagues or other people I don't know. If M hadn't ordered me…"

He thinks back to the crowd around the lift, thick even for the morning rush, the way Bond had submitted to the quarantine without argument, the complete lack of surprise on his part when Q came to him, and of course the fact that Bond had known that Q was an alpha long before this incident or knew Q's name.

It suddenly becomes clear.

"You utter bastard!" Q groans, sitting on the floor, "Is M aware you used him to be your pimp?" He demands just to see Bond flinch.

Of course, Bond doesn't oblige.

"I did no such thing," he denies blandly. As much as Q wants to, he doesn't believe the agent.

"Then why was I threatened with being detained for treason if I didn't fuck you?" He demands. "Why couldn't you just ask me to dinner like a bloody human being?" Q asks, cutting Bond off.

"You never took me up on the offer," Bond points out.

"You never sounded like you _meant_ it." Q counters, angry and hurt, wrapping his arms around him.

"I did not foresee M taking such drastic action." Bond hovers over Q, looking—tentative for once.

"What did you expect to happen?" Q snaps.

"I expected either you’d be amiable, or to spend an unpleasant couple of days by myself," Bond shrugs, "as I would have if I had gone home."

"I don't understand you," Q sighs.

"Not much to understand." Bond crouches down to trace the line of Q's jaw.

"Why would..." Q starts to ask.

"I trust you!" Bond interrupts.

Trust isn't love, isn't even attraction, but in their world it’s something infinitely more precious.

"You don't have to sleep with me for me to not break your trust."

"What if I simply want to?" Carefully, Bond reaches out, laying a hand on Q's knee. No weight to the touch, just the sensation of warmth as Bond wraps his hand around the cap of the joint.

"Then you should bloody well buy me dinner first!" Q sighs, "and maybe take me to the park to feed the ducks or something."

"Feed the ducks?" The face Bond makes reminds Q of Albert when he comes too close to anything with lemon in it.

"I want to know the person I sleep with!" Q says, covering Bond's hand with his own and giving it a squeeze.

The stunned look on the agent's face makes Q’s heart twinge. Closing his fingers around Bond's wrist, he gives it a tug, pulling Bond onto his knees and into Q's arms.

"Think that's manageable —James?" he asks, cupping the omega's cheek.

Terror flashes in the agent's eyes, bright and brilliant. It turns into resolve as Bond leans into the embrace, brushing his lips across Q's cheekbone.

"I'll do my best!" he vows.

 

Epilogue 

 

"That's new," Leiter notes looking down at James' hand.

On the other side of comms, Q bites his lip.  He knows what Leiter is looking at. Another scar has been added to James' tally: two arches of teeth marks across the outside of his hand. Just thinking about it, has Q squirming in his seat.

"Feral little thing who gave it to me. Quite worth it though." There is humour in James' voice.

Q still can't keep from growling to himself.

The mirroring scar on his hand itching as he thinks back to James' last heat, of tasting James' blood as he comes, locking their bodies together, his own pleasure mixing with the pain of James' teeth sinking into the skin of his hand in return.

They can't bond, won't be able to bond until James retires without putting both of them in danger.

The scars are meaningless to anyone but them.

"Feral, am I?" he murmurs, making sure none of the minions can hear.

"I see how it is." Leiter laughs on the other side of the world. "One of _those_!" The tone of his voice makes Q's hackles rise.

"I couldn't comment any further," James answers virtuously.

"I'll show you feral once you're back!" Q grumbles, reaching for the button to shut off the feed, secure the agents are out of danger.

"Understood, Quartermaster," James purrs, his voice full of promise.


End file.
